Cars parked alongside a chain-link fence
overlooking houses that have no view,
   plates from three bordering states aglow
      in the light from a hillside billboard
   filled with a glass of milk—Holyoke
just beyond the notch, slumbering
   like a rain-soaked paper on the porch—
     checkout boys from the local A&P
   hanging up their aprons, clocking out
on a night that is young only once
   in a stranger’s car—the taste of skin
      on clandestine tongues, freckled swirls
   down creamy backs in constellations
left unnamed, stiff cocks under boxers
    crammed into that vinyl dark perfumed